


This is not a ghost story

by kalliel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, POV Jess, Stanford Era, ghost au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 02:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6733633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalliel/pseuds/kalliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That night, Jess lies awake in her bedroom, staring up at the white ceiling. She wonders if she died.</p><p>Up there? she thinks, and she closes her eyes. </p><p>She doesn’t expect to wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This is not a ghost story

This is not a ghost story.

 

**i.**  


Sam hasn’t been right since he got back.

Jess can’t quite explain it, but he’s always looking through or past her, like she’s a ghost. They don’t ‘they’ anymore--or Sam doesn’t. Jess has tried. Sam just stares through her bones like so much dust.

Jess suggests that maybe this is burnout, maybe he should rest--but she only gets halfway through before Sam freaks out. But he’s the one taking sudden roadtrips out to god knows where; so, you know. If the shoe fits.

Jess bakes cookies because she doesn’t know what else to do, how else to help. 

Sam still misses his interview.

And like, she’s thought about this. If Sam’s decided he doesn’t want to be a lawyer after all, that’s okay with her. He could spent the rest of his life cruising down 101, selling maracas naked--nothing but a bolo--for all Jess cares. She doesn’t know what she’ll be doing in nine months, either; she should be looking at grad apps, or finding an internship or finding some of way of--you know, beating the job rush. She’s toying with the idea of applying to this new startup, Thefacebook. Marketing or design or something or anything, really, but her parents remember the dotcom bubble, are concerned she’ll get stuck in startup limbo. Which is better than hobo hell, but they can’t seem to see it that way. So maybe she and Sam will just sell maracas. Or not sell them. Fuck capitalism.

But not really. Jess is half a semester and sixteen spring credits away from a $200,000 Stanford diploma, and she needs to make something of herself.

BS in Psychology, Stanford ‘06. 

She needs to make something of herself. She thinks. Maybe. 

The point is, she’d understand burnout.

Sam’s lucky, in that he doesn’t have his parents breathing down his neck, still sore that she was only a National Merit finalist, four years ago, in high school; that she didn’t make ODP volleyball; that she doesn’t want to be a doctor. 

He’s lucky he didn’t have Jess’s dad, who called to get her student password so he could log in and see her grades. 

He’s lucky his parents don’t expect him to become a doctor, no matter how many times Jess says, emphatically, no. (Still, she’s completed all her med school pre-reqs. She has 5000 volunteer hours at Stanford medical. She’s organized two entire alternative spring breaks with Doctors Without Borders. Just in case.) 

But maybe that lack just makes the pressure worse: Make something of yourself so your family will finally see what you are capable of. Make them care at all.

Jess brings up the maracas once, but Sam doesn’t seem to hear her. She doesn’t know how to tell him she cares.

He won’t even touch me, Jess whispers, locked in their bedroom, sitting in a corner nearest the window, because that’s where her Razr gets the best reception. 

He won’t come to bed.

She’s not sure if he’s slept at all.

She can’t get within six feet of him; she does, and he vanishes.

Jess misses kissing. And she’s not going to admit this on an open line, but she misses fucking more.

She’s pretty sure they’re breaking up.

**ii.**

As long as she’s known Sam, he’s always known exactly what he wanted.

Esquire. An A in Fellini’s bullshit stats class. That one time, marshmallow nachos. And her.

Jess.

Sam has always wanted Jess.

Jess never thought she’d ever be that girl--you know, the one who scratches all her finals just because she got dumped; the one who can’t shut up about her love life, sinking ship that it is, until all her friends would legitimately rather study for ochem than hang out with her (because no one will talk to her--they won’t answer her texts, avoid her in lectures, never say hi); the one who wants some boy more than anything else. She’s _not_ that girl, just here for an Mrs.

But she takes an 8am midterm on November 3rd, a couple hours after Sam gets back, won’t touch her, won’t even look, and straight-up fails it. It’s like she wasn’t even there.

Did someone die? Aditi jokes, because goddamn it, Jess sets curves--she doesn’t pray for the mercy of them. Which is how Jess ends up crying in her bedroom, to Aditi, on her Razr, in the first place. She barely knows Aditi--they were lab partners once, which is why Jess has her number. Aditi’s the only one who picked up. She missed the Jess pariah memo, apparently.

So no, no one died. It just seems like the whole world did. And her boyfriend’s treating her like a ghost.

Maybe he got drunk and fucked someone in Vegas, says Aditi. Confront him! 

(Aditi’s from Jersey, just outside Atlantic City; she has a thing against Vegas.)

He was with his brother; they were just looking for their dad, Jess insists.

In Vegas? asks Aditi. And she says, I mean, seriously? You don’t drive around the entire state just randomly looking for someone. You call the cops. I mean god, Jess, how are you this gullible? Where’s your jaded senior-year cynicism?

They weren’t in Vegas, Jess snaps. 

So much for girl talk.

If not Vegas, then where? asks Aditi. You don’t actually know, do you?

_You don’t actually know._

\--

That’s not why she asks. Jess is not the plot of _Real Housewives of Silicon Valley_.

She just wants Sam. She wants to sneak up behind him in the kitchen, slip her arms around his waist and hug him right. Tug him back and forth like that until his socks lose traction on the linoleum and he has to dance with her--dance, or crash and burn. It’s their thing--her face in the brown warmth of his soft, worn hoodie; his hand in her hair, making it smell like diced onions. Their fumbling, giggling, slow-dance through their tiny student kitchen.

_Did you miss your prom or something? ‘Cause you suck at this._

_Maybe,_ says Sam, but he cups her ass and sweeps her up onto the table. Smack on top of someone’s linear algebra. And what’s about to happen is, frankly, a better mnemonic than anything their professors put on the board, because Sam says, _Want me to show you why?_ like they’re in the world’s raunchiest cheesy rom com, and Jess fucking loves him.

Right now she’s sitting at that table, a full plate of stale cookies in front of her.

When she came in, Sam was at the stove, dicing onions--and it was perfect, like he was really home for the first time--but he whirled around on her, knife in hand, and if Jess is being honest, it scared her.

It scared her a lot.

So she’s really just trying to make conversation, when she asks. Because if she never thought she’d be That Girl, all paranoid about losing her guy, she never, _ever_ thought she’d be the woman who’s afraid of him.

Not in her own home.

(She sure picked a bad time to lose all her friends. Her safety net.)

I never asked you about your trip, she wavers, tentative. 

Did you have fun? With Dean? she asks.

Loads, says Sam, and Jess stops holding her breath. His answer comes easy, like his lips aren’t sewn shut anymore. 

Sam adds, It totally exemplified why I make a point of spending _all_ my time with him.

And Jess snorts; she can’t help it. Because that’s Sam; and his deadpan is unrivaled. That makes him feel more real to her again. Open and safe and alive again.

Where’d you go? she asks.

And she can’t help it, she bursts out laughing when he says ‘Jericho,’ because she’s bubbling with this sudden and desperate relief and it sounds like part of the joke.

Jericho, says Sam, and Jess laughs, and--

Sam doesn’t.

Sam, what are you talking about? Jess asks, still smiling, smiling so hard her cheeks might literally turn to apples, smiling until it hurts and beyond, because she’s waiting, waiting for that punchline.

She’s waiting.

**iii.**

What if someone hurt him? Jess asks Jose, who shows up at her door one day with leftover casserole from the dining hall he works at. It’s penance casserole, probably, for avoiding her.

She gets that midterms are important, but she’s having a personal crisis. If her friends can’t stop being students for one second and help her through this, then she’s not sure what they’ve spent the last four years trying to prove. Fuck Stanford.

Maybe she’ll go sell maracas by the seashore.

I guess there are worse plans, Jose allows. Since the seashells are all state protected, maracas are probably a better bet. And also, he hates that tongue twister.

Jose cracks a smile, but Jess doesn’t, so Jose asks, is she, you know, seeing... anyone?

Sam! Jess answers, suddenly defensive.

Yeah, I mean. That’s kind of why I asked, says Jose.

We never broke up, says Jess.

And Jose says, I’m not saying you did. I’m just--

It’s a little early for come-ons, is what I’m saying, says Jess. Maybe you should leave.

Okay, says Jose, quiet now.

You know what, Jess, says Jose. I’m just gonna fix this sauce you’ve got going, ‘cause the casserole’s kinda dry. And then I’m gonna leave. I promise. 

Jose grabs some tongs and pulls an onion out of her stock pot, whole and heavy with tomato paste. 

Starts dicing.

**iv.**

Have you been

seeing

anyone?

 

**v.**  


Jericho’s a ghost town, Sam, she says. She is absolutely not in control of her mouth. She can’t keep the smile from her lips, except now she’s scared again. She’s scared and she giggles when she’s nervous and she knows Sam doesn’t want to be laughed at, isn’t finding this funny, but she just can’t stop.

Jericho’s a ghost town, and it doesn’t exist.

\--

That night, Jess lies awake in her bedroom, staring up at the white ceiling. She wonders if she died.

\--

Up there? she thinks, and she closes her eyes.

She doesn’t expect to wake up.

\--

 

\--

But there she is the next morning, still around. You know, hanging out. Sweaty and tangled in sheets. Maybe she had a nightmare, and maybe it’s just Palo Alto in November--per tradition, the hottest month of Californian summer.

Could dead bodies sweat? Or what about spirits? 

She can see herself in the mirror, though. 

She microwaves Jose’s casserole, and eats it. It doesn’t flop onto the ground, like in Casper.

And that’s really all she knows about ghosts.

**vi.**

She gets an email from Jose, with links to a bunch of psychiatrists, clinics, and hotlines. He’s in her major, too, and it’s probably a not-so-subtle hint: Get off your ass, stop crying about boys, and go after what you really want, Ms. Moore. Or at least apply for a summer internship.

Why Jose thinks she wants to be a grief counselor, she’s not sure.

But of course all this just makes her think about Sam, and that makes her cry, and then she’s sitting at the kitchen table with that same plate of cookies--going gray now they’re so stale--her eyes so filled tears she doesn’t even notice Sam until he appears in the doorway.

Did you come back for your things? Jess asks. 

Though when he left that night, he’d taken most of it already. She hadn’t realized how little he owned until she spent that weekend alone, trying to find comforting traces of him.

Maybe that should have been her first warning sign.

You know, she says, if we wanted to be ironic, you’d end up a divorce lawyer and I’d be a marriage counselor.

I guess that’s not ironic, really, she says.

I just-- She says. I mean, we’re Stanford’s ‘06, you know? We’re supposed to be out there saving the world or whatever--helping people with their problems. Like, we’re not supposed to be the ones with the problems. That’s not in the brochure.

Sam says nothing, so Jess keeps going. She says, That’s my parents’ issue, you know--that assumption. And honestly, Sam, I think it’s yours, too. You act like this whole deal is going to give you this perfect life. And like, I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry I don’t fit into that anymore. 

I guess, she adds, when Sam still says nothing. 

She turns back to her laptop, and when she looks up again, he’s gone.

\--

She downloads that counseling application, because she has a future to plan for.

Because she owes it to Sam to know what she wants.

Because she doesn’t know what else to do.

**vii.**

The thing about ghosts is, everything is a ghost to them. They don’t have bodies so they don’t care about borders, and the whole world just turns to ghost, ghost ghost.

It’s called immanence.

That’s what Dean tells her, anyway, after he shoots Sam through the head and Sam sifts away like so much dust. Her arm still stings where the rock salt smashed into the cabinets behind her, ricocheted shrapnel through all their six feet of kitchen.

The way he says it makes it sounds like he looked it up in the dictionary. Like he doesn’t actually know what he’s talking about, even if his gun suggests otherwise. The combination makes him difficult to trust.

He feels different now. Because Jess hadn’t felt that way before. Sure, the first night they’d met, he’d basically introduced himself by saying he wanted to bang her. And he broke into their apartment like a total whackjob. But even then, Jess had thought maybe she liked him. Sure, she’d invite him to the wedding. He’d be the weird, fun uncle. He’s Sam’s brother; she’s honestly happy to have met him at all.

But Jess doesn’t think she likes Dean anymore, and not just because he’s saying ghosts are real. Not even because he’s saying ghosts are real, and Sam isn’t. Hasn’t been. Or because he tells her Sam’s a ghost, and that’s why she feels like one--“immanence” her ass.

But there’d been a part of Sam in him before, and now there isn’t.

And that she does trust. 

Sam’s gone.

\--

Or maybe it’s the text afterward, from Tak this time.

 

 _DUDE_ , it says. _u missed the vigil?_

_thi sisnt about the maracas is it????!_

**viii.**

Living in a haunted house isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, if that’s what this is. There’s no pea soup, no pottery, no little girls at the bottom of wells. Sam doesn’t throw spoons or rattle vases--though there are earthquakes that will do this work for him.

Sometimes when she undresses, or glides naked through the house ( _because you live alone now, Jess_ ) she feels watched, but she’s not sure how much of that is ghost, how much is memory. How much is just this neighborhood.

But now it’s June, and Jess is packing. The semester is over, her lease is up, and there’s nothing for her in Palo Alto any longer.

I don’t know what to do with your things, Jess says to the open air, even though Sam doesn’t have any. Maybe there’s a hair, or an eyelash, like Dean said; but it’d take CSI to find it. She’s afraid if she moves, she’ll lose him for good. She’ll lose his anchor.

The moment she walked across that stage, turned that tassel, there was nothing left for her here but the past. The past and Sam, who was a part of it.

 _He told me to take him home, so I did_ , Dean explained nine months ago, when Jess asked what happened. As if the confusing part of this were why Sam was haunting Palo Alto, and not why they’d left, where they’d gone, what they’d done. But maybe for him it was. 

Maybe it always had been.

 _What happened, though? Like, how--_ she’d said.

What had she even wanted from him, asking something like that? The gory details? Flashbulb memories as souvenirs? Or an apology for misinformation, maybe--like, Psych! Sam’s fine. 

Look, here he is! 

Here’s where I’ve been keeping him! 

Punchline!

(you’re so mad you’re crying you’re so happy)

 

But all Dean said was, _If I could tell you that, I wouldn’t have let it._

That’s what ghost stories are. You’re not supposed to know what happened. 

But you’re also not supposed to know you’re in one.

Maybe that’s Jess’s problem now, nine months out, nine months the only ghost in her house. The moment Jess knew what was going on, Sam stopped, like shadows ripping from a lighted room. 

So much of a ghost story is its conceit, once you pass that threshold, there’s no power there, no haunting. You’re never supposed to get this far. Now everything just feels overlong. Poorly plotted.

There’s no book to tell Jess how to live this part.

**ix.**

The evening of June 29, Dean shows up again, which doesn’t help.

It’s proof of life, though. (Hers, not Dean’s. At least this means she’s not crazy. Because she’d be crazy _not_ to wonder if sometimes--)

And at least this time Dean knocks.

I’m here for Sam’s diploma, he says.

Jess says, I don’t think that’s how it works.

What do you mean? Dean asks, and he sounds genuinely incredulous. Dean says: But he spent four years of his life in this shithole. No offense.

Jess has a hard time believing Dean’s unfamiliar with the idea that you can work your ass off for something you’ll never win. He looks completely lost, though. He doesn’t understand. Stanford’s supposed to be different.

Sam wanted this; death shouldn’t be a thing that stops him.

Dean and Jess stand in the doorway in silence for some time, like somehow this is a more difficult metaphysical impasse than the existence of ghosts.

Sam wanted this, and he should get it.

Sam wanted--

Were you serious about all that supernatural stuff? Jess asks, because maybe her doubt will bring Sam back. If yearning cannot conjure ghosts, maybe it’s disbelief that will.

Dean pushes past her, muttering something about fucking recidivism and why does he even bother explaining and nine goddamn months living in a haunted house and ‘Sammy.’

Is your shower running? Dean asks.

No, Jess says, but hears water. Not the neighbor’s.

Do you even own a clock?

No, Jess says, but hears ticking.

Is the A/C on?

No. By this point it’s a grudging admission. This is making Jess feel stupid and out of touch.

This flooring’s old as hell, Dean points out. It should squeak but it doesn’t; that’s a sign, too.

Dean takes a step toward the bedroom and the floor outright shrieks.

Oh, fuck you, Dean says to the air. You did that on purpose. 

But he’s made his point. Jess hates him because he got there first, and loves him because for the first time it feels like she’s not alone.

Does it feel like he’s here? Dean asks. 

Dean, chimerical, looks like he’s about to throw up; it’s obvious what the right answer is.

It’s a little devastating, to know that five minutes ago, she would have given the wrong one. That she and Sam, they don’t have this transcendent bond that keeps Sam’s spirit close and potent and alive, or whatever. She doesn’t have whatever’s killing Dean right now. She’s not sure if she’s ashamed or jealous.

It just feels like he’s dead, says Jess.

Dean turns to her then, and he says, It’s supposed to.

He looks stupidly, stupidly grateful. Jess isn’t sure why.

After a while, Dean gestures at all the boxes and asks, Where are you going, then? Jetsetting?

Back to my parents, I guess, says Jess. I don’t know. 

Seriously? How old are you? Dean asks. 

Oh, like you’re one to talk, Jess scoffs. But it’s fine, really; it’s not like she hasn’t had this conversation before. Jess has been articulating this walk of shame all five months of the spring semester, and she’s almost proud of it. Like it’s countercultural, to have this degree and have no plans for it--like she picked it up at Cupertino Community College and not The Farm. She’s had to be proud, because she can’t stand the pity. She can’t tell how much of it is pity for the bereaved, and how much is just this school.

Ghost stories aren’t exactly self-actualizing, Jess says.

This ain’t a ghost story, says Dean. He tells her that those, he knows how to end. And he starts playing with his lighter. 

Jess makes believe it’s coincidence, not implication.

This is-- Dean starts.

This is Sam we’re talking about.

Aren’t you supposed to like, hunt ghosts? Jess asks. At least, that’s what Dean said last time.

I told you already, Dean replies. I told you this isn’t a ghost story.

But Sam’s a ghost, Jess points out.

You’ll be fine, Dean says quickly.

And that’s... a little weird. So Jess asks, _Why do you keep promising me that?_

**x.**

Jess lets the lock click shut behind her.

Five blocks west, four years of her life are dressed up in Spanish Revival, in brilliant green quads and locked WiFi and proud, impressive banners in cardinal red. Friends, now mostly lost (and it’s not just her; they all lost each other, Jess learned later. It’s hard to lose someone like Sam; harder still to stop losing, once you’ve started). A boyfriend, gone. GPA, barely resuscitated. Degree, nonetheless, in hand.

Now it’s time to say goodbye. Jess drops her key in the mail slot.

You’re going to be fine, she thinks.

She’ll be fine, Dean assures her, because Sam knows what he wants. And Sam asked Dean to take him home.

To you, Dean clarifies.

But what does that even mean? Jess asks. She means, what does that mean to a ghost? Because being wanted by the afterlife is generally bad news, isn’t it?

Dean shrugs noncommittally. The answers is obviously yes, but he won’t say it.

Sam’s quiet, he says finally. If he weren’t, then I’d have had to--

Dean stops, and says instead, _He loves you, Jess. He loved you more than anyone in the world. And you’re going to be fine._

Jess thinks Dean might be overdoing it a little now, because Sam’s never been that sappy. Still, it helps.

This is not a ghost story, and Jess will not live it like one.

Because Sam has always, always wanted--

\--

It’s going to suck, Dean warns her. It’s gonna be hard as hell.

But you’ll be okay.

Jess laughs. If there’s one thing she’s spent the last four years learning, it’s that. (Well, that and quantitative research methods.)

Jess is going to be okay. 

She says to Dean, _You too._


End file.
